


Lazy Sunday

by a_shepherd



Series: The Vorkosigans At Home [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Cultural Attitudes, Gen, The Regency of Aral Vorkosigan, The Vorkosigans At Home, family traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_shepherd/pseuds/a_shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rare, quiet, winter afternoon at Vorkosigan House. With Gregor. And Legos.®</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if Barrayar uses the same seven day week or the same names - just imagine that they do!

      They were home at Vorkosigan House after returning from a wonderfully relaxing Winterfair hiatus at the lake house. It was proving to be a rare, post-holiday slow spell for everyone, courtesy of a week of heavy snow. No storms or blizzards, just snow. Lots of it. Cordelia had observed in her first few years on Barrayar that Barrayarans seemed to regard periods of heavy snow, especially blizzards, as a delightfully welcome respite from their usual routines, rather than an inconvenient nuisance. _Very possibly_ , she thought in those early years, _because it must have been incredibly hard to conduct the warfare they’d had for so much of their history in heavy snow._ Back then, she had thought that a people capable of wormhole jumps surely ought to be able to come up with less primitive snow removal methods than manually scraping and shoveling it. She eventually came to the stunned realization it was simply that they chose not to. They _relished_ the heavy snow! Frolicked in it! Rode for fun in open vehicles drawn by horses in it! Held numerous weekend festivals dedicated to it! Had sports played exclusively in and on it! Aral, of course, excelled at nearly all of them - he was as winter-mad as the rest of his countrymen and Miles was giving every indication of following in his father’s athletic footsteps, as much as his brittle bones would allow.

      And the ice! _My God, the ice!_ Icicles longer than her arm festooning almost every building with a shimmering, crystalline fringe! Not long after Winterfair, as if the extravagant frenzy of holiday festivities hadn’t been enough, the capital held an annual, week-long Ice Festival, attended by hundreds of thousands from across the entire Barrayaran social spectrum. There were fairy tale castles complete with turrets and moats, built from blocks of ice and lit from within with multi-colored lights. Street food vendors set up shop inside, featuring a large selection of popular hot snacks and beverages. Patrons patiently stood in long lines to sit at tables and chairs carved from ice to consume them! Under the arch of the Star Bridge, also lit with festive lights, musicians played nightly on a heated stage while Barrayarans of all ages happily danced around on the frozen river with sharp metal blades strapped to their feet! (Ice skates! What a concept!) Distance races on that same ice were skated by teams from all over Barrayar - the winners got coveted bragging rights for a year. Wagering reached epic proportions on the grudge matches between hockey teams from the various branches of the armed forces. ImpSec declined to enter on the grounds they were much too busy providing security for the event. Vorbarr Sultana’s metropolitan police scoffed disdainfully, claiming they provided what was needed, thank you very much. Sculptors created incredible fantasy birds and animals using mini plasma arcs to carve enormous blocks of ice - judges were on hand and the competition was fierce, nearly always resulting in numerous arrests among the artists for assault and battery. Frigid arctic temperatures and vicious windchills did not deter Barrayar’s hearty, hardy populace in the least. Insanely enough, they seemed to encourage them!

      The only thing that _did_ halt their frosty frolics was an all-out blizzard. Even then, they’d simply consult their crack meteorologists and reschedule the festival for a more promising week. ‘Blizzard’, as she came to learn, _did not mean_ ‘a whole lot of snow’ - specific conditions were required: X amount of snow in X amount of hours, sustained winds over X miles per hour, and temperatures at or below X number of degrees. It was a cultural mindset that took her years to even begin to wrap her head around. The extra snuggling with the always toasty Aral, warm drinks in hand (she had become particularly partial to hot mulled cider), in front of a roaring fire after impromptu snowball fights or leisurely (if heavily guarded) hand-in-hand strolls along the riverbank surely helped. It took almost five years, but she eventually came to look forward to heavy snow as much as everyone else - people were friendlier and life seemed saner, somehow, more laid back, and exceptionally beautiful by moonslight.

     That weekend - _miracle of miracles!_ \- Aral found himself with a day unexpectedly and uncharacteristically free of any and all social and/or political obligations. _Hallelujah!_ Mid-afternoon after an early dinner, with heavy snow falling again, hard enough to obscure the view from the windows completely, Cordelia, Aral and the boys retired to the library to relax and spend the rest of the day luxuriating in front of a massive, roaring fire.

      At least, she and the boys could relax. Aral, as always, had his never-ending grind of bureaucratic paper-shuffling and a mind-boggling array of reports from all sectors of the empire to contend with. Gregor, still home from his prep school after the Winterfair break, was spending the weekend with them, away from the formality of The Residence. She and Aral were seated on opposite ends of a large leather sofa that looked like it had been there for a century and was good for at least another two or three. Oversized, overstuffed, and inviting, it practically begged one to curl up with a good book or for a nap. In her not so humble opinion, Barrayarans were light years ahead of Betans in the understanding and construction of truly comfortable furniture. She never would have imagined how _heavenly_ a large, plush, upholstered armchair could be before coming to Barrayar!

      Dressed in a disreputable set of old ship knits, she sat slumped in a decadently lazy slouch with her feet in her very obliging husband’s lap. He at least _looked_ relaxed, wearing an equally disreputable pair of faded, old, camo fatigue pants and a country-style tunic with its side-buttoned, banded collar, his feet shod in a pair of thick, woolen slippers. The slippers were hand-knitted in a colorful, elaborate folkloric design, looking to her like a pair of heavy duty socks with stitched-on leather soles. Bedroom slippers of a warm and fuzzy nature were yet another foreign concept she’d had to digest when she arrived. Back at the Sandbox, the objective was keeping cool while protecting one’s soles and toes! In one of his exceedingly rare childhood reminiscences, Aral had told her of a favorite annual Winterfair gift during the Occupation years - slipper socks his mother had a Dendarii widow knit for the three children. After an exhaustive search, she finally found an elderly woman in one of the more seedy caravansarai neighborhoods who still knitted them in the traditional style.

      He’d been deeply touched that she remembered, and they’d become an annual Winterfair tradition for their own little family as well, with scaled down versions of his for Miles and Gregor. In one of Aral’s rare silly moods - and he could be _incredibly_ silly when he put his mind to it - he had gifted her (by way of Father Frost) with ‘fluffy bunny feet’ slippers. Being tactical, practical Aral, _naturally_ he covered all the bases, casual winter footwear-wise, and also presented her with a sensible pair of outrageously comfortable, shearling-lined, sheepskin slippers - her favorites - which were currently kicked off on the floor beside the sofa.

      Aral was absent-mindedly massaging her feet with his left hand despite intense concentration on his work with a handheld comconsole. Formidable mounds of flimsies were piled along side him and haphazardly stacked on the back and arm of the sofa, as well as on the floor next to him - multi-tasking yet again, poor dear. It was tiring just _watching_ him! Sighing, she patted his knee affectionately, then settled in with the latest juicy novel sent from Beta Colony by her sister-in-law, to pick up where she left off yesterday. Aral, looking at her with a bemused expression, adjusted his own position slightly so she could snuggle in even better to get as comfortable as possible. He was so endearingly thoughtful that way. She beamed at him appreciatively.

      “A good read, dear Captain?”

      “Eh. Total trash, actually, but in a good way. The kind usually described as ‘a guilty pleasure’ in critics’ reviews.” With a snort, she elaborated, “It’s a total no-brainer. Perfect really, for passing the time on a day like this, especially when one’s feet are in pure podiatric paradise.”

      His bright grey eyes crinkling merrily, he smiled. “Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

      He laughed, warm and rumbling, as Cordelia blew kisses at him. She was gratified Aral at least conceded to sitting with her on the sofa while he worked. _Far too much_ , in her opinion, yet he never complained about his crushing workload. His strong, astonishingly gentle fingers were working their usual sublime magic on that particularly bothersome spot in the ball of her right foot. She was practically purring with bliss…

      Twelve year old Emperor Gregor, with the latest Captain Vorthalia holovid - _Vorthalia the Bold and the Thicket of Thorns_ \- was sprawled upside down on an adjacent cushy armchair, with his back on the seat and his long legs propped up on the back of the chair, crossed at the ankles, one foot wiggling back and forth to no particular rhythm. Miles, with a set of Legos® - a much coveted Winterfair gift - spilled out on the floor, was in an exceedingly rare, post-surgical cranky mood, impatiently waiting for Aral to join him. He was very much aggrieved and complaining loudly in an increasingly high pitched tone about the sheer _unfairness_ of it - having such a great/wonderful/fantastic new toy and having to wait for _stupid WORK!_

      Noticing the paternal foot massaging, with a petulant look, he whined, “That sure doesn’t _look_ like work.”

      Cordelia was forced to admonish him. “That will be quite enough of that, young man. Would you rather have your poor father slaving away at his desk in full uniform while the rest of us get to relax in comfort, just because he’s working?”

      The chastened Miles was instantly remorseful and apologetic, hanging his head.

      “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, buster,” she said in her Best Betan Tone.

      “I’m very sorry, Da. I know you’re really, really busy. I wish you weren’t…” Miles looked near tears. “I bet you wish you weren’t, too.”

      Aral, who had been absorbed in work to that point, acknowledged the apology with wistful look of regret. “I’m sorry, too, son, for having to keep you waiting. That set does seem amazing. I can’t wait to get at it myself.” He looked as unhappy as Miles did.

      “Much longer, love?” Cordelia asked him quietly.

      His face bore a weary, resigned expression. Aral sat up and put both feet on the floor, gathering up the flimsies into more organized and less precariously perched piles beside him rather than on the arm and back of the couch, and resolutely went back to work with a deep sigh. Cordelia found herself slightly peeved as the foot rub had stopped, and was forced to admonish _herself_. Looking at him fondly, she marveled that the poor man had been doing it at all. She reluctantly put her slippers on, and resumed her reading.

      Miles, in bored desperation, brandishing both hands full of pieces, went over to Gregor and looked down at him in the chair. He pulled an earbud out of his foster brother’s ear and asked plaintively, “Ya wanna?”

      Gregor paused the vid and looked up with a yawn. In his defense, the room _was_ warm, and they _had_ finished a heavy meal not all that long ago. In spite of herself, Cordelia choked back a snort when she heard Gregor announce in a _near regal tone_ , “Sorry, Miles. Legos® are really _much_ too childish for someone my age,” and resumed his viewing. Miles trundled forlornly back to his spread-out treasure alone.

       _Poor Miles_ , she thought. _But he’ll get over it soon enough_ , and was quickly lost in the novelistic goings-on. After several more chapters, she came up for air and a sip of her now cooled tea, suddenly aware that it had become very quiet, with only the crackling of the fire to be heard. Miles’ whingeing had stopped.

      Looking around, she saw him and Aral sprawled on the huge, thickly padded, Oriental-patterned rug, propped up on their elbows, dark heads together. _Formerly dark_ in Aral’s case - at times, she would swear he seemed to be getting visibly grayer by the minute! Father and son were intently pouring over the blueprints for a scale model of the Eiffel Tower, their voices hushed, pointing at pertinent parts of the layout before rummaging purposefully through the pieces, with an occasional, excited little yelp after one or the other found a piece in question. At times like this, Miles was very much his father’s son - sometimes she wondered if there was any of her in him at all!

      A few feet away, from the depths of _his_ overstuffed chair, Gregor’s curiosity was piqued as he too looked up and saw Aral happily rooting around through the thousands of tiny plastic pieces with Miles. He slithered out of the chair and approached them, standing over the two of them, shuffling his feet, looking quite humble and mournful. Like Miles, he worshiped the ground Aral walked on, and by the look on his long, narrow face, seeing how enthusiastic Aral seemed to be, he very much regretted dismissing the activity as childish.

      Aral noticed him quickly ( _of course he did_ ) and said kindly, “You don’t need an engraved invitation, boy. If you want to help, come on down. We’d be glad to have you. We’re trying to find a piece that looks like _sha_.” (Cyrillic letter Ш) Gregor’s hangdog look was replaced with a sheepish, apologetic grin as he joined them, plopping down on the floor and eagerly rummaging through the pieces with Aral and Miles.

      Their busy silence was punctuated periodically by a distinctly miffed Miles, generally with some variation of ‘Mama! Da’s hogging all the _good_ pieces.’ Aral, eventually, had taken over with brio (not that she hadn’t seen _that_ coming), directing the project and barking orders like a practiced construction foreman with a rookie crew.

      Unable to resist the opportunity, she teased, “If you wanted a set that badly, love, we should have asked Father Frost to bring one for you, too.”

      Blushing, he unleashed the boyish grin that always unglued her. “Heh! Next year, maybe.”

      Cordelia was ecstatic, seeing him relaxing and enjoying himself so much. “My brother had a set when he was a kid. Not the Eiffel Tower, though… just a basic construction set. I think my father played with it more than he did.”

      Gregor asked Aral, “Did you have one, too, sir?”

      She knew from what Aral’s late cousin Padma and several retired Vorkosigan armsmen had told her that the very young Aral had next to nothing in the way of real toys due to his family’s life constantly on the run from the Cetagandans during the early years of his life - the last, most brutal years of the Occupation.

      His eyes narrowed, before he told the boys almost reluctantly, “Well, no… nothing like this.” Aral hesitated briefly, looked up at both of them, and in his best Teachable Moment Voice said, “But I _did_ very much like to construct model buildings. I used egg shells, pebbles, twigs, scrap wood, paper, glass and plastic shards, shell casings, wire - anything my brother and I could scrounge up to build with. And _lots_ of mud.”

      She was pleased but initially taken aback, because Aral generally _did_ _not_ talk about his childhood unless prompted to the point of near-interrogation. His revelation lead to a spirited and detailed discussion about which types of mud were best for which building purposes and where to find them. Miles was _intensely_ interested. Cordelia had the distinct impression he couldn’t wait to try and emulate his father at some point in the hopefully not too distant future - this was right in his wheelhouse, and Aral was his role model for everything!

***

      Together in bed late that night, before turning the light out, she joked, “You just _had_ to tell Miles about the mud building, didn’t you? You _know_ he’s going to want to try it sooner or later. Preferably sooner.” Expecting a wry quip or two from Aral in return, she looked at him quizzically when it wasn’t forthcoming.

      He looked upset, his tone uncharacteristically defensive. “I’d rather not talk about those days, but I won’t lie to the boys if they ask.”

      Cordelia knew he only wanted to shield Miles and Gregor from the horrors of war, most of which he himself had experienced up close and personal for more than half his life by the time he was thirteen. She certainly couldn’t fault his intentions, but she believed they could do with a bit of exposure to it now and then, to make them appreciate the peaceful good fortune they now enjoyed. _Unbelievably_ good fortune, considering it was Barrayar.

      With a pang, she realized he must be unusually exhausted if he’d misunderstood her and seemed to think she might be criticizing. She quickly explained and apologized, after which he was embarrassed and equally contrite. Rubbing his broad, muscular back gently to soothe him (and _she_ certainly enjoyed it, too, possibly more than he did), she tried teasing again, saying lightly, “Why, oh why, did your construction medium of choice have to be _mud?_ You _know_ how Miles seems to be uncannily attracted to mud. Or should that be the mud’s attracted to _him_?”

       Aral sighed and relaxed visibly, but his heavy-lidded, long-lashed eyes had that heartrending, melancholy look she had come to know well whenever he talked about his long-lost family members. His smile was wistful, his voice, soft. “I imagine my mother would have said pretty much the same thing about _me_.”

      Gathering him in her arms, she held him tightly for a few moments, her chin on his shoulder, one of her favorite places to be. Then she laughed just a little, as she tried to picture him - the great and powerful Admiral Aral Vorkosigan, the Lord Regent of Barrayar - as a muddy little boy, and failed, miserably.

      Deftly, he switched their positions, taking her in his arms, an even better place to be. Snuggling in closer, she said, “Ah, well, seeing as how _you_ let that particular cat out of the bag, love, _you_ get be the one who will have to wash all the mud off him, and make no mistake - there WILL be mud! On both of you, would be my guess.”

***

      At the lake house the following summer, on a scorching afternoon, in the shade behind the gardening shed out back (with a particularly choice variety of mud), she found Aral and Miles building a scale model of Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia Basilica in Barcelona, Old Earth - with shell casings, twigs, stones, broken glass bits and lots of mud. The phantasmagorical-looking building, very likely one Aral had been impressed with as a child, lent itself particularly well to the muddy medium, she thought. It gave her enormous satisfaction, seeing her little boy and her ‘big little boy’ - _NOW_ she knew what he’d looked like as a child! - playing happily, joyously, together in the mud.

***

      That next Winterfair, Father Frost left the entire Lego® Architecture series (ages 16 and up) for Aral Vorkosigan, who, as everyone on Barrayar knew, had been a _very_ good boy that year.

 

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies if necessary to the Lego® Company. I’m sure they will still be around far into the future, in all corners of the galaxy! And yes, there actually is a Lego® Make and Create Eiffel Tower set, in a 1:300 scale, part of their architecture series. It stands just under 4 feet tall when complete, and is based on the original blueprints. We’re talkin’ over 3400 pieces here, people! The perfect thing for a lazy Sunday… along with cheesy novels and foot rubs.


End file.
